The Baskerville Incident
by Aussieflower
Summary: Sherlock is at his most vulnerable during his investigation in Dartmoor. His fear is not something he wishes to share with someone - but it looks like he might just have to when an unexpected guest arrives. Missing moments from "The hounds of Baskerville". Irene and Sherlock, of course. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**So this ****here is an idea I've actually had floating around for ages, but never bothered to get down on paper (or, to be more precise, on Microsoft Word…). Anyway, I got annoyed by all the John/Sherlock shipping fics about the episode "The Hounds of Baskerville" and decided to write my own with Irene.**

**This is just a very short prologue to set up Irene and Sherlock's relationship for this story. For any of those who have read my story "Him and Her" can base Irene and Sherlock's relationship on that as well, or at least on the first few chapters of that story.**

**Enjoy!**

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**The Baskerville ****Incident **

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He saved her, in the end. She couldn't remember ever feeling more grateful, nor more indebted. Both feelings annoyed her; the last thing she had wanted was to be dependent on somebody, especially if that person was Sherlock Holmes. She had expected scathing remarks and sarcastic comments, ridiculing the fact that she actually needed to be rescued by someone. The woman, always so independent, suddenly needing to rely on someone else's help if she wanted to stay alive.

But none of that came. Sentiment prevailed, feelings for each other surfaced, something that surprised both of them. She knew her own feelings, as much as she had tried to block them and ignore them. But for him to admit his own (albeit not completely free-willingly), to step so completely out if his comfort zone, was something that amazed her.

Sherlock stayed with her for a week, helping her settle into her new life, providing the necessary legal paperwork and making completely sure that it would seem that she had indeed been executed by the terrorist group that had held her for so long. But she knew that he could have easily sorted everything out in only a couple of days, and that he wanted to stay with her.

He left, but she knew she would see him again. Although he had told her not to misbehave, she knew that she couldn't simply stay in the place he had chosen for her, live and ordinary life and act like a good little girl. She needed the thrill of danger, and he knew that perfectly well. She supposed his imploring her to behave was some sort of an attempt to at least try to convey the seriousness of the situation to her, although he must have known that it wouldn't work.

Just before he took a taxi to the airport she teasingly whispered to him that this wasn't over. He had stared at her for a second, his piercing gaze making her shiver slightly, before he smirked slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes. He knew very well that he would see her again, whether he liked it or not. And right now, she knew, he definitely looked forward to it.

He didn't need to wait long. Within a few months she got bored of the country she was in; she missed England, which had been her home for so many years. She knew that she was risking her safety simply by going however, disguised as she was. But England and the gorgeous blue eyed detective that lived there drew her there, and she did nothing to resist the pull.

She was careful to never go to London. She loved the city, and missed it extremely, but she had far too many enemies there. Instead she followed John's blog closely or simply texted Sherlock and found out whenever he was alone on a case outside of London and went there immediately.

Sherlock looked surprised the first time she showed up, and she felt triumphant at being able to shock someone so clever again. After the first few times he no longer looked surprised, but she knew he was always happy to have her there.

Sherlock never told John about her, and she didn't ask him to. The less people who knew she was alive the better.

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**Please tell me what you thought! **

**Laura xx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for all your reviews! **

**This story will be fairly short I think, maybe three or four chapters. But that's only a rough estimate, because my stories mostly get out of hand and I end up writing twice as much…**

**Anyways, enjoy!**

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Sherlock hadn't had a proper case in ages. The dead pig barely counted, that was simply tedious and so very _simple_. And all the cases before that had simply been very boring.

He missed Irene, too. Even when a case was so easy to solve that he wondered how the people who had hired him could possibly have _not_ seen who the culprit was, she added a certain complexity to everything. She was a completely unsolvable puzzle, and even though the case was generally solved twice as quickly when she worked with him, he enjoyed every minute of it. Watching her manipulate people into telling her exactly what she needed was very entertaining, but also fascinating. Sherlock knew he could manipulate people, but quickly noticed that compared to her, he seemed like a complete amateur.

Whenever they were apart they would text. Not at regular intervals, like some sort of normal couple, (because their relationship was simply too complex to be considered normal anyway). Instead, she liked to surprise him and catch him off guard. He never wanted to seem eager, and always waited for her to text him.

Sherlock was relieved when Henry Knight finally came along with his _hound_ _problem_, as John had taken to calling it. He had needed the distraction desperately, and the case looked very promising. Briefly, his thoughts flashed to Irene, wondering what it would be like if she accompanied him this time, but he quickly realised that it was better not to tell her about it. Even though it was outside of London it was still unsafe, and besides, John was coming with him this time. He quickly dismissed the thought of letting her know about what he was doing and told John that it was probably best if he didn't write up the case on his blog before he actually solved it. John had smirked at him, probably thinking that he didn't know what to do, but Sherlock just ignored him.

The case was interesting at the beginning. Getting into Baskerville was easy – Sherlock was sure his brother would find out about the card he had "borrowed" from him, but his brother owed him anyway. Not just for all the cases Sherlock had solved for him, but also the situation with Moriarty that Sherlock had so far refrained from telling John about.

He smirked slightly at how Irene would react if he told her that he had managed to break into Baskerville, and this thought kept him in a good mood for the rest of the afternoon.

Henry reacted with slight panic when Sherlock told him his simple but very effective plan ("We go to the moor, and see if anything attacks you."), but Sherlock barely noticed. He completely doubted that there was actually a proper dog, but the fact that Henry had only referred to it as Hound kept him intrigued – it was a puzzle his mind couldn't solve at the moment. He was careful not to come to any conclusion as to what this mysterious monster could be – conclusions faulted his objective way of thinking when he had actual facts and data.

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Sherlock was _scared_. No, more. He was, probably for the first ever time in his life, absolutely and completely _terrified_.

He had made his own way after returning from Dewer's Hollow, running and stumbling through the thick vegetation using only his torch for light. He had several scratches covering his arms and hands where his jacket had ridden up and exposed the bare skin. His shirt was slightly torn at the sleeves, the trees and shrubs tearing the material to get to his skin. He had tried to run away from his fear; to expel the horrible image of the horrendous creature that was now imprinted on his mind, but it didn't work. The blood red eyes haunted him wherever he looked, and even more so when he had closed his eyes.

John had gone back with Henry to his house, leaving Sherlock to return to the inn. He needed peace and time to think after what he had just experienced, not quite used to handling these particular emotions. He refused to sit in the main eating area with all the other people, who would probably all want to talk to him. He didn't want their attention, he needed time to process everything, and most importantly, gain control of his own body and mind.

It was with great surprise that he (shakily, he hated to admit) opened his bedroom door and found another person sprawled out on the bed. He simply stared at her for a few seconds, then shook his head and went into the bathroom, turning on the tap and splashing cold water on his face. He had already seen things he hadn't expected tonight; perhaps this was just a side effect to fear: seeing things that weren't really there.

Of course he realised that he was seeing reality when she was still there, now staring at him in a more surprised way, her expression having turned from satisfaction and expectation to surprise and confusion in a split second. Sherlock was different to other people, certainly, but she had never seen this behaviour by him. She frowned, not speaking before she understood what he was thinking.

His mind was reeling. What was she doing here? And how could she possibly have known that he was _here_, of all places. He had been so careful not to drop any clues or hints as to what he was doing or where he was going. For all she knew (or rather, should have known), he was sitting in his favourite chair in Baker Street. And how had she actually gotten into his room?

"Surprised to see me, Sherlock?" she asked finally when he didn't respond to her or even acknowledge her existence in any way, except staring at her.

"What are you doing here, Irene?" he asked in a clipped tone, closing his eyes and quickly opening them when he remembered the horrid image of those blood red eyes. Irene frowned.

"Normally, you at least pretend you're pleased to see me, dear" she said a little scoldingly, but her eyes twinkled. She furrowed her brow when he didn't respond with a smile, mock annoyance or a sarcastic comment. Instead, there was only silence, with him still staring at her frantically, before he turned around, shrugging off his coat and running a hand through his hair.

"How did you find me?" he demanded suddenly, whirling around to look at her. Irene got up from her position on the bed, swinging her legs over the edge slowly and teasingly. His eyes briefly flashed down to the amount of snow white, exposed skin but then went back to her face, slightly unfocused, before he blinked slightly.

"Must we skip straight to the details?" Irene asked, suddenly smiling again. "I'm under the impression that there's a lot more we could be doing…" she trailed off suggestively, but was truly surprised when she got no response in return. Before Karachi this wouldn't have caught her attention, but now that she and Sherlock were on different and certainly more positive terms she expected some sort of answer, be it a physical or a verbal one.

Sherlock inhaled deeply once, his eyes no longer focused on her, staring at something she couldn't see. He was unfocused, jumpy and jittery. She had never ever seen him like this, and she doubted John had either. She no longer cared about the flirting (that was just for fun any way,) but there was something seriously wrong with the handsome and usually confident man before her.

"Sherlock?" she began tentatively; softly, and her change of tone finally caught his attention. He didn't even bother to mask the expression on his face, which was another thing that worried her. Even with her, Sherlock was still occasionally reserved with his true feelings and emotions, at least at the beginning. She understood that he was still relatively unused to the feelings he experienced with her (as was she with him, to an extent) so the fact that he hadn't come out from under his generally unaffected mask of indifference yet was a clear sign that something was very, very wrong.

"What's wrong?" she asked, cutting straight to the point. She wasn't about to question him if something was up, because she could clearly tell and mentally kicked herself for ignoring it in the first few minutes.

Sherlock shook his head, not ready to confront his feelings. He opened up to Irene more than any other person, and he had been caught off guard by his feelings quite a few times by her, but this was something different. Before, they had been feelings he had blatantly been trying to deny to himself, but his subconsciousness knew they were there, which made it easier to accept them. But this…_this_ was something completely different. Fear, not just fear, but the terror he felt now was something he had never really experienced before, and he wasn't ready to admit to himself that now he really was just like any other man in terms of emotions. Sex and the feelings he felt for Irene could be dismissed, because with her, they weren't like the feelings other men experienced, they were so much more.

But such an inferior feeling as being scared…

It wasn't just the fact that he refused to accept the emotion coursing through him, but he didn't understand it.

"Excuse me" he managed to say, as he spun around and walked towards the door with a brisk step. Irene stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder, but the touch was unexpected to him, and he visibly flinched in fear at the contact, jerking away from her. Irene gaped at him, trying to understand what he could have seen to make him act like this.

"Tell me what's wrong" she insisted sternly but gently. Sherlock shook his head.

"John is down there" he snapped hurriedly, and left the room, leaving a shocked Irene.

He knew she couldn't follow him, she wouldn't risk revealing herself to John; it was one of the things they had agreed on. John was still with Henry, but he needed space and time to think, and he couldn't do that with Irene, so the lie had been necessary. He would simply have to sit down among all the people also staying at the inn, considering his bedroom was occupied.

He sat down in front of the fire. It was the only free spot in the room, and besides, he felt chilled to the bone; he needed warmth. He sat there and stared into the flames, but saw the hound chasing after him every time he blinked. He was almost glad to be disrupted by Billy.

"You look a bit tired there" he said with a smile, his sandy brown hair brushing his eyes. "Would you like anything to drink? Coffee? Or something stronger?"

"Stronger" Sherlock replied and was caught off guard by just how hoarse his voice sounded. Billy looked at him sympathetically, and rushed off to prepare his beverage.

"There you are" he said as he brought back a small glass filled with amber liquid. Sherlock accepted it with a nod.

"Sorry again that we weren't able to do a double bedroom for you two boys" he said again, repeating the words his partner had already spoken that morning. Sherlock barely heard him.

Billy paused, almost as if he hoped for conversation, possibly wanting to learn more about Sherlock's and John's non-existent gay relationship, before he noticed that Sherlock was ignoring him. With a sigh, he walked away, deciding that John was most likely the friendly one in the relationship.

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**Thank you for reading. By the way,if any of you forgot, Billy is the sandy-haired owner/manager/innkeeper or whatever of the inn Sherlock and John are staying in.**

**Please tell me what you think.**

**Laura xx**


	3. Chapter 3

**I am so, so sorry for the time it's taken me to update this story (actually all my stories). I'm afraid that updates will start being rather slow, because school is utterly overwhelming me, but hopefully I should get the next chapter of this story up sometime in the next few weeks, instead of the next few months.**

**Also, I know I said that this was kind of a 'missing scenes from The Hounds of Baskerville' but this chapter focuses on what we see on screen. But I promise that next chapter will be very Irene centric. **

**And lastly, a **_**HUGE**_** thanks to all the lovely people who took the time to review!**

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Sherlock wasn't sure just how long he sat in front of the fire, and retreated to his mind palace to attempt to expel the images from his mind. Slowly he became less unaware of his surroundings, and slipped into a welcome numbness until John sat down opposite him. As soon as he registered his flatmate's presence it all came rushing back to him again, the hound with its horrific eyes and Irene, somewhere upstairs in his bedroom, only confusing his emotions further.

He briefly took in his flatmate: John was calm, collected, with no sign of fear in his eyes as he talked about Henry being crazy. Sherlock felt sudden anger when John mentioned the monster dog and then an overwhelming sense of need to talk about his experience that evening. Originally he hadn't planned on mentioning it, but now it was almost impossible not to say anything.

"Listen," John continued, completely unaware that Sherlock's breathing had suddenly heightened, "on the moor I saw someone signalling. Morse- I guess it's Morse. Doesn't seem to make much sense. U.M.Q.R.A – does that mean anything?"

Sherlock didn't reply, and John finally looked up, surprised that his friend wasn't acting like a know-it-all. Instead he saw, with great surprise, that Sherlock looked tense, the colour had drained from his face, his eyes were screwed shut and he was taking deep breaths. He frowned in confusion. He hadn't seen Sherlock like this before, but he supposed that the detective was probably considering something important and decided to continue with the case.

"So, okay, what have we got?" he said, attempting to wake Sherlock from his trance. "We know there are footprints, because Henry found them; so did the tour guide. We all _heard_ something."

Sherlock shook his head slightly, trying to dislodge the image of gigantic footprints…even that scared him now. He felt his sweat slowly break out on his face, his breaths suddenly panicked.

"Henry's right." He finally managed to gasp out, interrupting John. His flat mate looked startled.

"What?" he asked, just to make sure he'd heard properly.

"I saw it, too."

John shook his head. No, no no, this couldn't be happening. Sherlock didn't believe in this kind of stuff. "_What_?"

"I saw it too, John." Sherlock repeated, working on keeping his voice steady and trying to reign in his emotions. They made no sense, he should have been able to dismiss them, but they wouldn't go away.

"Just…just a minute." John repeated, still slightly dazed by Sherlock's statement. "You saw what?"

"A hound. Out there in the hollow. A gigantic hound!"

John shook his head, this was ridiculous. Sherlock was probably tired (the man hadn't slept in days, and coffee could keep people awake forever, and, judging from the glass beside him, he had been consuming alcohol.)

"Um…look Sherlock," he began, trying to keep his small, bemused smile off his face. "We have to be rational about this, okay? Now you, of all people, can't just…Let's just stick to what we know, yes, stick to the facts." But Sherlock shook his head. No, it couldn't be. He knew what he had seen in the hollow, hell, he could still see the gigantic monster in his mind. John had missed it, but it had been _there_.

He breathed out, a strange sort of calm descending on him due to his sudden conviction. He wasn't mad, not yet, that was one emotion less to control.

"Once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be true." He said softly, while John just looked confused.

"What does that mean?"

Sherlock shook his head and picked up his whisky glass, the calmness disappearing as suddenly as it had arrived. Instead, he could see the remainder of the warm brown liquid splashing in its glass and it took him a moment to realise that his hands were shaking. The realisation almost made him want to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"Look at me, I'm afraid, John. Afraid." He spat bitterly. "Always been able to keep myself distant, divorce myself from _feelings._" Once again, he felt a nearly manic laugh spill from his lips, because who was he kidding? John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, _Irene_; all people he cared for somehow, who he had let in. And now _this_. He wasn't in control of his feelings, far from it.

"But you see," he added, suddenly needing to describe what he was thinking to try and make sense of it, "my body is betraying me. Interesting, yes? _Emotions_. The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment."

John shook his head, deciding that sleep deprivation and alcohol really weren't a good mix. "You've been pretty wired lately, you know you have. I think you've just gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up," he said, his thoughts flying subconsciously to Irene. She had been the one to provoke Sherlock's sentimental side all those months ago, and no matter how much Sherlock had denied it, he knew that she had had an effect on him, and it wasn't one he had liked. She was dead, but there were times when John still attributed Sherlock's occasional emotional instability to her actions and manipulation.

But Sherlock had had enough. His thoughts weren't far from John's, Irene also dominated them. He hated the confusion and terror he felt, it didn't make sense, _and he didn't know what to do_. He hadn't been aware of it, but slowly this desperation and frustration and fear had manifested itself into something bigger, and rage and madness suddenly threatened to overwhelm him.

"Worked up?!" he spat furiously, and watched John lean forward, probably trying to console him.

"It was dark, and scary."

"Me?!There is nothing wrong with me!" Sherlock felt like yelling, his head was clouded and he couldn't think straight, but he knew he had to stay clear minded and objective. He couldn't fall prey to such emotions as other men, he was so much more than them.

It was at this point that he couldn't take it anymore, and even John could finally see that something was horribly wrong. In fact, as he carefully examined his flat mate he was shocked to discover that Sherlock seemed to be experiencing the symptoms of a panic attack.

"Sherlock?" he asked softly, uncertainly, talking to him like he was one of his patients. It finally drove Sherlock over the edge.

"There is nothing wrong with me! Do you understand?!" he yelled, and John recoiled, shocked. Sherlock gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

"You want me to prove it, yes? We're looking for a dog, yes, a great big dog? That's your brilliant theory. _Cherchez le chien_? Good, excellent, yes. Where shall we start? How about them?" he jabbed a finger at the pair sitting at the table nearest to them. "The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman? The answer's yes!"

John groaned and braced himself, ready for one of Sherlock's long deductions to prove that he was fine. But this time, even he was surprised.

Sherlock opened his mouth and let the torrent of words flow out, his mind processing and noting every detail about the two people he could find. He no longer tried to exercise any control over what he was saying, his only objective was to keep talking, to keep observing and show John that he was fine, he was _infallible_, and he wouldn't be stopped by certain weak and fleeting human emotions.

Subconsciously, a deeper need resided. John had irritated him by trying to make him admit something was bothering him and that he may have succumbed to fear and panic. But he wasn't only trying to prove the fact that he was unaffected to John, he needed to prove it to himself. And so he kept talking and talking, his words getting faster and faster, his body whirring with sudden energy.

"So you see," he all but snapped at John when he finished detailing the mother and son's life out to his flatmate, who was looking at him with a mix of shock and astonishment, "I am _fine_, in fact I've never been better. _So just leave me alone!_"

He let out a breath at the end of his monologue and sat back in his chair, the sudden agitated energy leaving him, and before he knew it, he saw the hound before his eyelids again, with its horrifying red eyes harrowing into him. His hands curled into fists, enraged beyond words. Why did this image have to keep returning? What was wrong with him, since when had sentiment, abhorred, horrible sentiment, played such a big role in his emotions? Feeling like he was about to scream, his harsh breathing returned, and he fell back into his panicked trance. He only barely registered John's words breaking through the haze that surrounded him.

"Yeah, okay. Okay. Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."

Sherlock snapped, John's statement finally sending him over the edge. How dare John assume that he was dependable on other people? How dare he think that he, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, needed someone to help him cope with this? _How dare he?_

"_I don't have friends!_" he spat angrily, tension and fury coursing through his body, his face etched into a snarl, his eyes wild. But John barely saw the madness and desperation in his eyes, instead his body suddenly went rigid, affronted by the insult. Unlike Sherlock, he managed to keep his reactions in control.

"No." he agreed as calmly as he could, turning to go. "Wonder why…"

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**Thank you for reading and please review!**

**Ooh, and on a different note, have any of you started watching Elementary, with Johnny Lee Miller? I would love to know your opinions on it (I've already seen all six episodes).**

**Laura x**


	4. Chapter 4

**Yes, I know it's been a shamefully long time. For all the people still reading, thank you very much for sticking with the story.**

**I'd like to thank Kilimiria particularly, who, with her amazingly awesome tumblr GIF-set (which can be found here: **** image/53054079102)****, got me out of my hibernation period and back to continuing this story. **

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Irene's eyes widened as she listened from the staircase. She hadn't dared to go into the main living room area in the disguise she had come in, but had instead stayed at the top of the stairs, pretending to text if anyone walked past her.

Even so, she had listened carefully, needing to know why Sherlock was acting the way he was. She knew he was here on a case involving this mythical hound, having traced his phone and having seen the documentary about the area once she had figured out where Sherlock was. But she would never have imagined that Sherlock would have been this worked up over something she had been certain was only the product of someone's imagination, only used as a method of financial gain and publicity.

Slowly she crept downstairs, nearer to the back door, holding it slightly ajar, but still trying to discern Sherlock's voice from the casual murmur of the other guests' conversations.

She could faintly hear him talking in an agitated and heated voice, before there was a short silence. She bit her lip and crept forward, closing the door softly, wondering what had happened, and had only a second to turn around and press herself against the wall as she saw John walking towards her. For a moment she thought he was looking right at her, but he walked right past the crowded bar where she had hidden herself and exited through the back door.

Irene breathed a sigh of relief, but the worried feeling that was nagging her didn't go away. She had had plenty of time to witness John and Sherlock's relationship, and understood how complex it was. John knew Sherlock and understood how his mind worked, so Sherlock must have really offended the army doctor for him to storm off like that.

Shaking her head, she quietly crept through the back door after John and watched him take a secluded path through the muddy fields. His posture was rigid and straight and he marched determinedly away from the inn. She saw him head up towards a hill where some flashing lights had apparently intrigued him and smirked slightly. She had passed by that spot on her way to the inn and had a fairly good idea of what John would find up there.

Outside, hidden by the shadows of the dark, looming trees she simply stood and waited for Sherlock to make his appearance. There was no way he could stand to stay in the bar area, it was too full, and she knew that he preferred privacy when he had to deal with things that confused him. He wouldn't go into his bedroom; she was supposed to be in there, after all. No, the only place he could really clear his head and thing was out here.

Irene sighed to herself and shook her head. The only time she had ever seen him doubtful or nervous was when he was with her, during her betrayal and afterwards in Karachi. She knew he had feelings for her, despite his irritated behaviour around her earlier. With a smile she thought of the night in Karachi; he had been cold and cynical there too, but the second he had let his shields down enough for her to kiss him his behaviour had changed drastically. Even so, the morning after had been awkward. Sherlock hadn't understood what he felt towards her, or rather, he hadn't wanted to. She suspected it was the same here. If he was scared, the anger and frustration at himself for even allowing the thought of those emotions to enter his head would make him even more agitated.

She didn't have to wait for very long.

Only minutes after John had exited the inn, Sherlock followed suit. In the faint yellow light that filtered in through the windows she could make out his expression. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw set. She had never seen him this agitated in her life.

The worse thing was how unfocused his eyes were. This was the man who prided himself on being able to pick up on every single detail, yet he hadn't even seen her yet. Understandably, John had been blinded by anger and so it was easy for him not to see her, but Sherlock's continued oblivion was certainly new.

In the end, unable to bear the silence, Irene stepped towards him, into the glow of the light. "You shouldn't have said that to John, you know."

Sherlock spun around, eyes widening slightly, before an angry expression took over his face. Irene used the moment to inspect him. She understood that he was agitated, and he was only agitated when he was annoyed, scared or nervous. In this case, it seemed like a combination of the three. She also knew that his ability to think clearly and objectively had been impaired. As someone whose mind thrived on rational thinking, his behaviour to her and to John wasn't really surprising. But she still didn't understand what the cause of his behaviour was. She stepped closer, and saw his dilated pupils. She frowned thoughtfully to herself for a second, a vague suspicion forming in her mind, but she filed her observation away for later, knowing that jumping to conclusions in this situation was the worst she could do.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped, repeating his question from earlier that evening. Irene fixed him with a steady gaze. Normally, he wouldn't even ask such a question, much less twice. He would have figured out everything for himself, her motivations and reasons. But today…

"You were supposed to stay in the room." He said, frustrated with her silence. He wanted answers, he wanted to _understand_, and her calm gaze infuriated him. He wanted a reaction from her. "You could be seen. The risk…"

"There is no risk and you know it." She said finally, and he was surprised at how firm her voice sounded. There wasn't a trace of playfulness anywhere in her features. She kept her eyes on him, and in the end, he couldn't stand the continuous eye contact.

"What happened, Sherlock?" Irene asked, just as he was about to turn around and go back in.

"Something in the forest, am I right?" she continued when it became clear that he wasn't going to answer. "Probably while you were investigating this hound thing with…Henry Knight? Obviously something that both scared and surprised you, and something that you can't find any sort of logical explanation for, which is why you're acting this irrationally and so completely without reason.

"Henry Knight recently appeared on a documentary talking about having seen footprints of a hound, which he believes killed his father 2 decades earlier, in the area. So - what did you _see_, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's anger grew slightly at Irene being able to read his emotional state so precisely. Under any other circumstances, he would have been impressed. But right now, he hated being so obvious.

Irene didn't gloat about her deduction, she just kept regarding him. Strangely, Sherlock suddenly found his anger fading when he looked at her, though he was still scared. Irene saw the bitterness in his eyes fading and stepped closer, until she was only a few inches away from him.

"I don't know what I saw." Sherlock quietly admitted at last. Irene knew what it cost him to say something like that, especially to her. Sherlock swallowed and looked at her, feeling relieved when he saw no judgement in her eyes. Paradoxically, the way she was looking at him now (which would have infuriated him only minutes ago) suddenly calmed him, and the need for physical contact with her suddenly overwhelmed him. Irene only saw something in his eyes for the briefest second before he kissed her, but immediately understood that she had succeeded in breaking down the wall he had put up to protect himself from her and John this evening. So she put her arms around him, drawing her closer to him and kissed him back.

When Sherlock finally drew back, the anger in his eyes had completely dissipated. He didn't say anything, but Irene knew what he was feeling and so only smiled at him and took his hand, leading him back inside.

They had a mystery to solve.

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As soon as they were upstairs, with the door locked behind them, Irene sat down on the bed, leaning comfortably against the headboard, while Sherlock paced around the room. The tension from the evening had suddenly vanished. Somehow, and Sherlock really had no idea how the woman did it, she had made him realise that what he had been thinking was nonsense. Through her deduction and, most importantly, by making him admit the realisation which he hadn't even properly dared to admit to himself-_I don't know-_ she had made him aware of the fact that what he had seen couldn't possibly be real. Somehow, completely against his expectations, the woman had restored his ability to think rationally and logically once again.

She was truly _The_ Woman.

Now he paced about the room, organising his thoughts. Now that he knew what he saw couldn't have been real, it was just a matter of figuring out what it had been. While the task would probably be hard, he had the fundamental basis of knowing that whatever was in the woods, whatever he and Henry had seen, was not a real hound from hell. And now that he had Irene to help him figure out all the possibilities- he knew that they would get to the bottom of this.

Irene watched him patiently, waiting for him to finish organising and sorting through the numerous possibilities. Based on his behaviour earlier as well as bodily symptoms, she had come to a vague conclusion of her own, but she knew too little of the case and the turn of events to be able to come up with a correct answer. She needed to hear Sherlock's side first.

He still looked frustrated as he paced, finding it hard to rationalise every little detail he had seen. It had all seemed so vivid and real.

"Why exactly were you in the woods?" Irene asked after a while, deciding that if he just began talking he would he might stumble across the answer a lot quicker than if he kept trying to find the logical side to everything. Just as she had expected, Sherlock immediately started recounting everything, also deciding that her simplistic approach would probably work best.

"You were correct that we came here to help Henry Knight find a supposed hound that apparently killed his father 20 years ago. The fact that he said 'hound' and not 'dog' when he asked me to investigate the case intrigued me. We decided that if the hound really existed ,we would not only find clues of its existence, but it would probably attack one of us if we went to the woods. And if it didn't - well, then it wasn't real, in all probability.

"And John didn't see it?"

Sherlock shook his head, trying to remember the exact sequence of events. "John went off on his own fairly quickly as soon as we entered the forest. I don't know why, he must have seen something suspicious which turned out to be a dead end. I think he was trying to tell me about it earlier…" he trailed off.

"Morse code" Irene supplied, having heard snippets of their conversation. "I think he mentioned the initials U.M.Q.R.A".

Sherlock regarded her with raised eyebrows. Irene sent him a challenging gaze.

"Sherlock, you didn't seriously expect that I wouldn't try to follow you, given the state you were in."

Sherlock sighed slightly as if to say 'of course not', but his lips twitched slightly at the comment, betraying that he wasn't annoyed with her this evening.

"Right, so he saw someone signalling Morse code..." he frowned again when he saw Irene suddenly smirk, before her gaze was once again neutral. She grinned more openly when she saw the silent enquiry in his eyes.

"What John saw wasn't a lead. I think he's actually pursuing it now, but the poor dear will end up rather disappointed with his detective work."

"Care to share, Miss Adler?" Sherlock asked, and Irene was relieved to see that he really was okay, if he was teasing. His question only made her grin wider.

"He saw car headlights."

Sherlock frowned, failing to grasp the connection.

"The Morse code John thought he saw was people dogging."

"And the definition of dogging in this scenario would be…?"

Irene quickly choked down a laugh, and though she kept her expression as neutral as possible, she was certain that he saw through her poker face.

"Never mind. It's irrelevant, as you would say."

Sherlock accepted her answer with a shrug and moved on. "Henry and I went down to the hollow. We heard a growling sound and suddenly…there it was."

While Sherlock showed no signs of returning to his previous state of panic, Irene did see a trace of fear in his eyes.

"What did this 'hound' look like?" she questioned leaning forward intently.

"It was…immense" Sherlock murmured, almost to himself, trying to recall the details of the hound's appearance. While they had been almost crystal clear an hour ago, now the details were suddenly blurred and vague. "It's face looked fierce and monstrous…" he stopped, shuddering slightly.

"That's all you remember?" Irene asked. "Not its size, its colouring or the breed?" She sounded as dubious as he himself suddenly felt.

Sherlock shook his head.

Irene got up and stood next to him. "So we've established that you saw something out of the ordinary…or rather, your brain interpreted something you saw, in a way it generally wouldn't."

She could see Sherlock's distaste written all over his face as he turned away from her. "I've always been able to rely on my senses" he muttered to himself, but she knew that he meant for her to hear, seeing he was admitting his feelings out loud. "And today evening, for the first time…for the first time, I can't make a rational connection between what I saw and what was actually there."

"I don't know if it was the first time." Irene said slowly. Sherlock spun around to face her intently.

"What?"

Irene smiled at his surprised tone. She greatly enjoyed being a step ahead of Sherlock.

"I'm sure it's the first time that it's been this extreme." She admitted. "But come on Sherlock, you understand chemistry and biology. Your senses, while they are certainly accurate, don't provide you with what you see, hear, taste, touch and smell. The brain does."

Sherlock stayed silent, but he followed her movements intently with his eyes, and Irene knew that he was giving her his full attention.

"The brain will always interpret images in a way that might not correspond to what they actually look like, or rather, how another person sees them. Not to mention that the brain can be easily manipulated."

She saw something flicker in Sherlock's eyes. Approval? Regard? She wasn't really sure, but it pleased her, nevertheless.

"You already have a theory." He murmured, as she stepped closer to him. She smiled.

"Is attempting to seduce me a way to prove your theory?" he asked in a somewhat huskier voice, when she continued to step closer.

"Attempt?" Irene asked, a wicked grin playing on her features. "You make it sound as if I'd never succeeded." She took another step closer, putting one finger on his cheek, before staring him directly in the eyes and stepping away.

"And to answer your question, no it's not. I think I just proved my theory."

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.

Sherlock's eyes widened very slightly with her new revelation, covering up the small twinge of disappointment in his eyes when she had stepped away.

"Would you mind elaborating?" he asked, noting that she was enjoying the advantage she currently had over him far too much. While it irritated him, he was definitely impressed. His thinking had certainly been in some way damaged, but that was no excuse for his unawareness.

She smiled at him, but he saw that there were still no signs of gloating in her expression, although she had every right, for the way he had treated her this evening.

"I don't know if I'm completely right." She told him. "But from what I've seen, and from what you've told me, it seems like the only logical explanation."

Sherlock nodded, signalling her to go on.

"In the television documentary that Henry appeared in, the general theory was that the hound Henry saw kill his father was an escaped genetic experiment from Baskerville. But that was never proven, and Henry was only a young child at the time. Did he describe the hound to you?

Sherlock nodded in response. "He said that it was huge…with coal black fur and red eyes".

Irene nodded. "It's not a very detailed description, just like yours, but he was only about five years old at the time, and the experience must certainly have been traumatic. But even so…" she frowned for a moment, considering something, and continued. "There is a small chance that it may have been a genetic experiment, but I doubt that. Baskerville has tight security" (at this she smiled at him) "and while you certainly managed to get in, I doubt they would ever let anything _out_."

"Besides, and I'm sure you've already reached this conclusion yourself, if it really had been an escaped experiment, why would it reappear now, after 20 years?"

"It's not a coincidence." Sherlock confirmed. This he already knew.

"Exactly, and we've established that this current monster dog doesn't exist. But if it also didn't exist 20 years ago, then Henry's father either died in some sort of an accident that Henry doesn't remember, or…

"He was murdered." Sherlock said grimly. Of course. "Henry did mention that his father was always questioning what was going on at Baskerville. He could easily have made enemies at the facility that way-especially if he was trying to uncover something big.

"Conveniently letting a genetic mutation escape to apparently murder Henry's father would certainly be a good plot in some sort of novel, but in this case, it's way too dangerous and dramatic." Irene supplied.

"But now Henry's seen this hound again, he even got the media involved. And now you're involved as well, one of the few men who could unmask what's really going on. So something had to be done to make both you and Henry believe that there is a hound out there, in the forest, to cover up what really happened 20 years ago."

"We were manipulated." Sherlock said, realising the obvious. Irene smiled grimly.

"Yes. That's what I was referring to when I talked about how the brain interprets images, and how easy it is to manipulate that process. Your ability to think clearly has been impaired, you're seeing things that aren't there, you're jittery and agitated, and your pupils are dilated. Knowing your past, those symptoms should sound familiar."

Sherlock's eyes widened as the realisation hit him with full force, and he realised that Irene was right, it was incredibly obvious. He was almost embarrassed that he hadn't seen the signs, because he had experienced them firsthand when he had been addicted to cocaine. Of course.

However, the fact that he had been so blind only overwhelmed him for a second, before relief, staggering relief washed over him in waves. He wasn't crazy, what he had seen really hadn't existed, at least not in the form he and Henry had believed, and there was a perfectly logical and rational explanation. And Irene had figured it out.

"I was drugged".

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**Thank you for reading! x**


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